After the Battle
by Cathryn
Summary: Movieverse. The final battle is over, but Peter has one more thing to do before he can go home. PG-13 rating due to grisly imagery.


TITLE: "After the Battle"  
AUTHOR: Cathryn (askewnislasher@rinkworks.com)  
DISTRIBUTION: My website, someday, once I can get into it again; Mandy's eventual website; ff.net. Anyone else, please ask. Hint: I'm unlikely to say no.  
SUMMARY: The battle is over, but Peter has one more thing to do before he can go home.  
RATING: PG-13 for grisly imagery.  
NOTES: Nope, it's not slashy. Be amazed and savour it, for this is something that happens about once a year. I may come at this scenario from a slashy angle later on, but this is a strictly gen take.  
NOTE THE SECOND: I'm operating on memory here, and I didn't bother to turn to the less-than-stellar novelization for detail confirmation, since it's just as likely to be wrong as I am. (Yeah, I know, meow - I'm just bitter that Peter David, one of my favourite authors, churned out such junk.) So, if anything's wrong, it'll get fixed when I have the DVD for comparison. Until then, please cut me a little slack?  
DEDICATED: To Mandy, for assuring me that this is not a pretentious piece of crap. Which encouraged me to post it, so this may or may not be a good thing.  
DISCLAIMER: It's all Stan Lee and Steve Ditko. Okay, and David Koepp may be responsible for a line or two of dialogue.  
  
  
  
  
  
"After the Battle"  
  
  
  
  
  
Peter wasn't sure, exactly, how long he crouched there, staring at the body speared to the wall. Norman Osborn's body.  
  
'Don't tell Harry.'  
  
Disconnected thoughts wandered through his numb, exhausted mind. He wondered how deeply the glider was embedded into the wall; how deeply would it have to be, to be able to hold up its grisly burden? He wondered how long Norman Osborn had been the Goblin, how long he had known about Peter. He wondered if MJ's palms had been abraded like his from sliding down the cable. How soon he'd be able to make a new costume. How he was going to explain all this to Harry.  
  
'Don't tell Harry.'  
  
Mr Osborn hadn't had to ask. He couldn't tell Harry. The Goblin . . . the Goblin had tried to *kill* Harry. He couldn't ever know this.  
  
. . . but how to stop him from finding out?  
  
Peter took a deep, painful breath. No falling apart just yet. Stay rational. Think about this.  
  
He couldn't.  
  
Do it. Make a list. How to spare Harry as much pain as he possibly could.  
  
The costume. When Mr Osborn was found in it, that would be it. It would be in all the papers by tomorrow.  
  
So get him out of it.  
  
Peter stood, slowly, ignoring the pain that tore at his muscles and creaked in his joints. He approached Mr Osborn skittishly, moving in an unconscious arc, afraid of something. Of what?  
  
Of what he had to do.  
  
The glider was firmly entrenched in the stone; it took several tries before he could even loosen it. He stopped for a moment to breathe, and tried to think of a way to free the glider without bringing Mr Osborn down on top of him.  
  
Cautiously, he braced a hand against Mr Osborn's chest, pinning him back against the wall, and pulled at the glider with the other hand. It was an awkward angle, the glider slippery with blood. It took a few moments' struggle to prise it free. He let it fall to the ground, turning himself to catch Mr Osborn before he could do the same.  
  
The weight of the man caught him by surprise, his muscles shrieking in protest at the burden. He eased Mr Osborn down to the ground with as much care as he could and thought about what to do next. How to get rid of the costume.  
  
He could take it off here, and web away somewhere with it. The river, maybe. Dump it there, let the water rinse it clean before it resurfaced.  
  
And do what with Mr Osborn? Leave him here, to be found, prodded, photographed, in this cold ruined room?  
  
No.   
  
No. Maybe, after what he'd done, it was what he deserved. But not what Harry deserved. Bad enough to lose his father; worse to lose him like this. Peter would have to find some other way to do it. Something with more dignity.  
  
He would take Mr Osborn, costume and all, out of here. To his house? No. Well, yes. Once the costume was gone, Peter decided, that was exactly what he would do. But not with the costume. Too much staff. Too much risk.  
  
Then where?  
  
The answer, when it came to him, was fairly obvious.  
  
Aunt May's house. With Aunt May in the hospital, and no one having yet made arrangements to fix the damage, it was empty. He could do what needed to be done in his old bedroom, where he could work in privacy and clean up afterwards.  
  
But it was so far away. The very thought of so long a webswing, carrying such a heavy burden, deepened his exhaustion.  
  
But where else could he go? Certainly not his own apartment. He couldn't exactly take Mr Osborn up the elevator with him, and might be seen going through his bedroom window, and what if Harry was home?  
  
He had to go to Aunt May's. There was nowhere else.  
  
Peter sat for a few moments, steeling himself for the journey, then lifted Mr Osborn and leapt out a window.  
  
**********  
  
Harry opened his eyes, and blinked into the darkness before realizing in amazement that he'd been asleep.  
  
The nap had been his father's idea. After the hug - which Harry still couldn't quite believe had happened; he couldn't remember the last time his father had hugged him, if there had been one at all - Dad had said gently,  
  
"Stay with me for a few days. Let it all settle before you have to deal with Parker again."  
  
"Okay," Harry had whispered, absurdly afraid that speaking too loudly would somehow make the tenderness in his father's eyes disappear.  
  
Dad had smiled and - would wonders never cease - kissed his forehead.  
  
"Good. I - have a few things to take care of. Why don't you go take a nap? Things will look much better when you wake up, I promise you."  
  
At that moment, Harry loved his father so completely that he would have done anything he had asked. "Okay."  
  
He'd gone to his old room and found that it still held his old bed. He'd thought that it would be long gone, and had been touched to see that it was still here. Still made up, even, ready for him any time he needed it. Though he hadn't expected to sleep, he'd shed his clothes and climbed into it.  
  
And now it was dark - Harry wondered how long he'd slept. He must have been tired after all. He lay there a while, thinking, and realized that his father had been right. He did feel better. He wasn't angry at Peter, or even at MJ. It came to Harry with crystalline clarity - it wasn't Peter's fault that he still loved Mary Jane. It wasn't as if he could just turn it off. And how could he condemn Mary Jane for discovering how good Peter was? How much better than himself, really. He wondered that it had taken her so long.  
  
He would tell them this. Assure Peter that he wasn't angry, assure Mary Jane that he understood, tell them not to avoid each other for his sake. He would do what Peter had done - value friendship over pride, try to be happy for them. And not let them see him hurt.  
  
And he would do it now, before his nerve failed him. Harry got out of bed and got dressed, wondering exactly where in the house Dad was. He had to tell him thank you, and that he was leaving and would be okay. Harry laced up his shoes and left his bedroom to find his father.  
  
**********  
  
Peter lay collapsed on the floor for some time, feeling gradually returning to his numb body, as he searched for the strength to move again. It wasn't there, but he had no choice; he forced himself to sit, then stand. Fall apart later. He could fall apart later. He turned the light on. Odds were against anyone calling the police to report a light in the empty house; in this neighbourhood, everyone carefully ignored everyone else's problems. He doubted most of the neighbours even knew what had happened beyond the explosion. He took a deep breath and knelt next to Mr Osborn.  
  
The fastenings on the suit weren't especially complicated, as it had obviously been designed to put on and take off in a hurry. It was searching for them that was the hard part; his mind cringed from the necessity of handling a corpse, and his heart from the fact that it was Harry's father. A man he had trusted.  
  
He bit his lip and searched for detachment. There was no time for this. He had to get this done and go home before his injuries caught up with him.  
  
Somehow, he got through it; the pieces of the costume lay on the floor next to him, and Mr Osborn lay in front of him. He had worn no clothing under the suit, but the nudity didn't disturb Peter so much as it saddened him. There had been a man inside that costume, a man inside that hideous persona, all along -  
  
Later.  
  
Peter went to the hall closet and found a blanket in the back. It was old, had probably been around longer than he had; Aunt May wouldn't miss it. He returned to his room and carefully, respectfully, wrapped the blanket around Mr Osborn. Then, not allowing himself time to stop, time for thought, he lifted the body. He would come back for the costume tomorrow; he would not be able to make it back tonight.  
  
**********  
  
At some point during the long webswing to the Osborn mansion, Peter's mind shut down. Unaware of himself, his surroundings, or anything except the macabre bundle that had to be balanced just right so that he wouldn't drop it, he was surprised when he found himself in Mr Osborn's office. He hadn't expected to get there so easily. Had expected a final complication, something that would somehow worsen things.  
  
For all the pain, for all the longing to unburden himself and get the hell out of there, he found himself able to lay Mr Osborn down gently, taking care that the blanket still covered him -  
  
"What have you done?"  
  
In his pain and exhaustion, Peter hadn't felt the weak tingle that, at the moment, passed for his dulled spider sense. He looked up to see Harry. Harry now staring at him, now fumbling in a desk drawer for what Peter knew would be a gun. He fled, hearing Harry's cry faintly through the window.  
  
"What have you *done*?" 


End file.
